


Like Victory, Or Coming Home

by serpentunder_t



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Charlie's POV, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fighting, Gen, Mild Language, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 20:04:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4679627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpentunder_t/pseuds/serpentunder_t
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some scars aren't visible, and not all fights take place on the battlefield.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Victory, Or Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> So not only is this one un-beta'd as always, but I also wrote it at 5 am after a panic attack, so please forgive the inevitable errors!

“I’m not a fucking child!” She screamed as the screen door slammed behind her.

Charlie knew it was childish, stomping off after just declaring otherwise, but damn if Rachel didn’t get under her skin. She just wouldn’t _listen._ To anything, and Charlie wanted to scream.

All the bloodshed all the mud caked beneath her nails and the scars lining her body. She ached with the weight of it, and that heavy emptiness had sunk into her bones, claiming every breath she took since she’d stepped off the battlefield. She didn’t know what was wrong with her, but she knew Rachel’s condescending tone wasn’t what she needed.

So she stomped and kicked her way down the dusty road, occasionally screaming profanities into the crisp night air. How dare she, how dare she sit there and act like she knew Charlie better than Charlie knew herself; she hadn’t been there. She’d never been there. She didn’t know about the time Charlie’s favorite pig had been slaughtered when she was 12 and she’d wept for three days, she didn’t know about the nightmares that plagued her as a child, of all the screams and the planes falling. It had been Maggie and her father that had held her as she’d wept, terrified that this meant she was weak. Rachel hadn’t been there the day Charlie stood up the boy in Savannah Heights that had been teasing a younger girl mercilessly, the day Charlie realized that despite the pit in her stomach she was strong. She was tough.

Rachel hadn’t been there to see any of it. So hearing her talk about what was best for Charlie, and what was wrong with her, what all of her shortcomings where, made her want to reach for her gun right then.  It was only years of practice that had steadied her hand and loosened her tongue instead. She had many faults, not even Charlie could deny that, but they rarely aligned with what Rachel thought of her.

She hated herself for it, but she wanted to go home. She wanted to cry into Maggie’s arms and yell at Danny for being nosy when he’d pop his head in to check on her. She even wanted to see her father’s hesitation at what to do. She wanted her innocence back. But Rachel’s words just kept replaying over and over in her head, ‘ _You put yourself before everyone. You’re so selfish’_ spoken as if that was the worst thing to be in the entire world, as if Rachel hadn’t left her family for her affair, ‘ _it’s all in your head and if you’d just step back you could see how silly your being._ ’ On and on, the words clawing at her ears.

She was in town before she’d realized her feet were taking her to the bar. Still swearing and cursing she burst through the door with a crazed look, ready to fight anyone who looked at her the wrong way.

A whiskey and a half later, Charlie was starting to steady her breathing, trying to focus on the boy flirting beside her rather than her own thoughts. He was talking about how difficult it had been to help take care of Willoughby while so many were away fighting the Patriot War. She wanted to spit on him, but alas, he was her distraction, so she bit her tongue.

The sudden hollow sound of shattering glass ricocheted through the bar, turning heads. It wasn’t until after that Charlie realized she’d leapt from her stool and was currently crouched on the ground, reaching for a gun that wasn’t there.

Tears pricked her eyes as she stood, the entire bar watching. She finished her whiskey in one gulp and held her head high as she marched through the parting crowd.

What had just happened? Why was her heart racing like she’d just run a marathon? _What was happening to her?_

Fear and anger at her weakness pricked at the rage that had been boiling since she’d come home. Moving away from the bar, she found an empty street and began throwing herself against the alley wall. Kicking, clawing, punching at the brick before her, barely feeling the sting as her hands broke open. This was what she was good at, what she knew how to do, she understood the fight.

 

In a daze and unsure of the hour Charlie wandered aimlessly, unwilling to go home and unsure what to do with herself. She was still too mad at Rachel, and she didn’t want to see the look on Gene’s face while he’d tend to her hands. She didn’t fucking care. She didn’t know what she wanted, but it wasn’t this aching numbness that was following her like a black rain cloud. So she walked.

She was walking past Main Street for what had to be the fourth time when a figure stepped out of the shadows. Immediately on guard, Charlie found the small knife she kept stuffed in her boot and seamlessly slipped it into her hand while finding her footing for a fight.

The figure laughed. “Now that’s a fighting stance if I’ve ever seen one.”

She’d know that voice anywhere, after weeks on the road and months fighting a war together. Bass.

Sighing she let her posture drop, “What dragged you away from the big city to little old Willoughby?”

He fell into step beside her, “The local color, particularly one Susan Evergreen.”

“You came for a girl?” the shock in her voice prominent.

“No I came for a fuck. Very different things.”

“There’s sex in Austin, or have you got someone there you’re trying to impress?” She was prying, but anything to take her mind off of tonight was welcome, even Bass’s sex life.

“Favor to Miles. He tried to set me up.”

“How’d that work out for you?”

“Terrible. I’d forgotten how crappy that bar is for one, and how much I don’t like redheads.” Charlie roared, his light tone bringing out a slight smile from her. “Speaking of which, I saw you at the bar.” Charlie faltered, suddenly self-conscious, “You didn’t say hello.”

“Didn’t see you.” She tried not to mumble, she really did, but if he’d seen her then he’d seen her little 'incident'.

“Clearly.” His smooth voice twisted with something Charlie couldn’t place.

“Fucking say it.” She could tell he was holding back, they’d always had a sort of silent communication. It had been invaluable on the battlefield, but off of it it was just annoying sometimes.

“You feel it, don’t you?” His voice was softer than she’d expected, almost, dare she say it, caring.

“Feel what?” Her hackles stayed raised.

“The fight.”

“What fucking fight?”

He rounded on her, stopping their slow pace along the sidewalk. “You know exactly what I’m talking about Charlie. The war. The fucking war that we fought.” She opened her mouth to deny it, but his eyes shut her up. “You feel it.” It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t answer it. She just turned and brushed past him, continuing walking. He followed in silence for a while, letting Charlie think.

“I used to feel it too. In the early days.” She huffed, trying to ignore him. “I think it just got better with time.”

At that Charlie lost it. “Better with time? Are you fucking kidding me right now _Monroe_?” The use of his old name burning on her tongue. “You went insane. You destroyed your entire republic because you fucking lost your shit. Don’t lecture me about giving it time.”

As she spoke, Charlie watched as the old Monroe that had held her captive flashed across his face. The expression of a man that would gladly slit her throat just to shut her up. “Don’t.” The word was laced with danger, a threat if ever she’d heard one.

But Charlie made the very illogical choice to take it as a challenge instead. “Don’t what? Don’t tell the truth? Don’t bruise your ego? Don’t stand up to you? Don’t what, _Monroe?_ ” That was twice in one night that she’d called him something she hadn’t spoken since the start of the Patriot War, egging him on as the name dripped like poison from her lips. Charlie knew what she was doing, she was teasing the lion while standing in the lion’s den, but tonight, she couldn’t bring herself to care. Let the lions feast.

He licked his lips, eyes still dark with rage, clearly fantasying about all the ways he could’ve had her killed two years ago. But when he didn’t speak right away, Charlie took matters into her own hands. Her right hook collided squarely with his jaw, sending shooting pains up her arm. Bass staggered back, staring at her like she’d grow another head.

“Charlotte.” It wasn’t Monroe, but Bass speaking, and it made her stomach roar in fury. Lashing out she kept up her assault, getting a few more punches in despite his excellent blocking abilities.

“Fight! Back!” She growled at him.

“No.”

Charlie was shocked into lowing her left arm, slowing her attack. “Why not?” She panted out. “Fucking fight me you coward!” Spitting as she spoke, trying to regain her momentum.

“Charlotte no.”

“Fight me!”

“FUCKING FIGHT ME” Her screams were laced with sobs, tears flowing from her eyes before she’d even realized they were there. But ever the warrior she refused to slow down, aiming now for his solar plex, as he gracefully side stepped her increasingly sloppy attempts.

Her next jab was aimed at his stupid face, which he caught. The sweat from his hand mingling with the half dried blood on her knuckles as he twisted it down, bringing Charlie to her knees. “ _Do it._ ” Her words echoed off the alley walls, and even she could hear the desperation behind them.

Instead her eyes widened as she watched Bass crouch in front of her, never letting go of her still clenched fist. “I know Charlotte.” A half sob broke from her chest, “I know.” He pulled her into her chest as she felt her labored breathing turn into sobs. “You’re not alone Charlie. I’m here.” And she felt herself melt into his embrace, finally lowering her fist as she muffled the screams that clawed at her throat in his ragged flannel shirt.

She was hyperventilating, like Danny used to do when he couldn’t breathe. Shocked and worried she clutched harder at the man whose embrace surrounded her. “Breath Charlie. Hey, hey, look at me.” He dragged her chin up, her panicked eyes meeting his cool blue ones. “Breath. Breath.” His voice was so calm, so husky and soothing that she felt her breathes growing deeper at his command, steadying.

“I just. The bar. And Rachel. And my gun.” Somewhere in the back of her brain, Charlie knew she wasn’t making any sense as she heaved out words, trying to explain something to Bass. But the words came out anyway, barely audible as her body shook.

“Shh, it’s okay. I know. I know. Shh.” He was stroking her hair, which was bizarrely comforting to her as she felt her eyes growing heavy. Somewhere, as if in a dream, she felt the strong arms that had held her together as she fell apart hoist her up, supporting her. But she couldn’t really care less as it faded to black.

 

Charlie woke up slowly, letting out a low moan as she stretched. That had to have been the best night’s sleep she’d had in years. Opening her eyes she was blinded by the sunlight filtering in through the tiny window before her surrounding came into focus.

She shot up so quickly it made her head spin, this was so not her house. Or her room. Or her bed.

“You’re okay.” Bass’s voice drifted from the corner, drawing her gaze; he’d been sitting in the tiny armchair.

“Where am I?”

“My hotel room.” Charlie could only guess at what her face looked like that caused him to clarify, “You passed out, and I sorta figured you might not want to wake up to Rachel fussing.”

A low sigh of relief left her, thank fucking god it wasn’t Rachel waking her up. “Thanks Bass.” The nickname felt sweet on her tongue, like victory or coming home.

“Anytime, but you know...” He trailed off, fidgeting with his jacket.

“Spit it out Bass.”

“You’re gonna have to talk about it.” Her entire face paled, fear creeping in at the memories of the previous night. “Not now, but eventually. Or you’ll lose your shit.” The words she’d spat at him last night lost all of their brutality as his lips formed them, unmockingly.

She just nodded, unsure of what to say. Charlie could, however, feel a strange tingling in her gut that made her want to reach for a bucket. The new feeling slowly replacing some of the heavy emptiness she’d been carrying around for so long. It felt both entirely wrong, and yet so beautifully right at the same time. Terrified by the weird sensation, she just kept her mouth shut, looking down at her hands to assess the damage. They were neatly cleaned and bandaged.

She met his piercing gaze as a warmth began to spread across her body; the anger still roaring beneath the surface, but maybe, just maybe, a decimal or two quieter than it had been the day before.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I realize that this narrative is a bit choppier than I normally write, but it felt much more real for how Charlie's emotions and thoughts would be processing given the circumstances.  
> Also I am no expert on mental illness or PTSD, I simply drew on my own personal experiences with both.


End file.
